Martin advanced, smilingly sure of his welcome, nor did he notice that Miss Barrington’s greeting was a shade less cordial than usual. His coming was the signal for an adjournment to the music-room, and there Westbrook sat with clouded eyes and unheeding ears while the air about him rang with melody. After a time he was conscious that the music had stopped and that Ethel was speaking. “I think I never heard of anything so horrible!” she said. From Martin’s next words Westbrook gathered that they were talking of a particularly atrocious murder that had been committed in the city the night before. Then the girl spoke again, her voice vibrating with feeling. “Oh, but Mr. Martin—only think of a human being fiendish enough to attack his own son!” Westbrook tried to rouse himself, to speak, to move; but he seemed bound by invisible cords. His head was turned away from the speakers, but he saw their reflection in the mirror facing him, and he noticed that the lawyer’s gaze was fixed across the room upon himself with a peculiar intentness as he said: “Yes, incredible, I grant, Miss Barrington; and yet, in a little New England town of my acquaintance a boy of twenty shot down his own father in cold blood at their own fireside.” “Oh, don’t, Mr. Martin—the human fiend!” shuddered Ethel. The lawyer’s eyes did not waver; a strange light was coming into them. “A human fiend, indeed,” he repeated softly, half rising from his chair. Something seemed to snap in Westbrook’s brain, and he forced himself to his feet. “Your music set me to day-dreaming,” he began, with a smile as he crossed the room, “and your creepy murder stories awoke me to a realization that the sweet sounds had stopped. Come”—he looked straight into Martin’s eyes—“some time you may tell me more of this gruesome tale—I am interested in studies of human nature. No doubt you meet with many strange experiences in your business; but now I want you to sing ‘Calvary’ for me. Will you, please? Then I must go.” Martin rose to his feet with a puzzled frown on his face and picked up a sheet of music from the piano. “Thank you,” said Westbrook, when the song was finished. Then he turned to Ethel with extended hand. “I hope you will have a pleasant summer,” he said in stilted politeness. “You are very kind. Shall I wish you the same?” Her voice and her fingers were icy. Her pride was touched, and she expressed no hope as to their future meeting, and certainly Westbrook dared not. He left the house with a heart that was bitterly rebellious, and the blackness outside seemed to him symbolical of his own despair.